


When The Day Met The Night

by Gildedmuse



Series: 10 Casts A-Crossing [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Challenge Response, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: When Doyle woke up (was ressurected? Everything is so jumbled) he was face to face with an honest to God not just a name Angel. And also his demon (boy)friend.





	When The Day Met The Night

**Author's Note:**

> [Written we quite some time ago though I don't know when.]

**When The Day Met The Night**

  


It’s only really beginning to come through to Doyle that someone is talking to him.

  


It’s a pretty someone, in a certain way. Okay, he isn’t pretty, pretty but he’s darkly handsome. Yeah, that’s a better way of saying it. Darkly handsome and very, very blurry.

  


And not talking to Doyle so much as the whitish blur next to him, at least now. “I don’t think he can hear us.”

  


“Ahcuneryoo.” Is that his voice? Sounds enough like him, Doyle supposes, but it ain’t exactly right, is it? Because use to be Doyle could speak in full and complete words.

  


“Hmm?” Both of the blurs were looking at him now. At least Doyle thinks they are and, yeah, yeah… He rubs at his eyes some, and things just start to clear up. Maybe clear isn’t the right word, but he can at least only see the four of them. Aye, that isn’t right, is it? “Is he awake.”

  


“No, Angel. He’s still asleep, just talking and with his eyes open.”

  


“Oh.” The whitish blur, who ends up just being a very pale, very English looking man in a white suit, frowns. “Is that normal, then? Most people don’t sleep like that, do they?”

  


The darkly handsome one says something in a language that Doyle is sure isn’t English, and it sounds… old. Like really old.

  


Anyway, the white blur understands it. He keeps frowning. “That isn’t true. Not at all, Crowley. I do wish you wouldn‘t say those things.”

  


“Sure it is,” the darkly handsome.. No, Crowley, says. “All your guys are like that.”

  


What the fuck are they on about?

  


“Xcuse me…” At least he can talk now. Seeing as he’s gotten that far, Doyle tries to stand. Bad idea. Even bracing himself against the wall, Doyle ends up rolling right back to the floor. “Xcuse me, mates, but what the fuck are you going on about.”

  


“Ahh…” The white blur looks almost guilty, but seeing as Doyle is already plenty confused, he doesn’t mind that this doesn’t seem to make sense. “Nothing… Nothing for you to worry about.”

  


“Look.” Crowley hunches down, right in Doyle’s face, and he can see himself in the man’s dark lenses. Shit, he doesn’t really look that bad off, does he? “You’re Allen Doyle, right?”

  


“Maybe…” Doyle tries to pat his hair down and, fuck, that hurt. Wincing, he rubs at the back of his head, careful of the bump he just found. Whatever happened last night, he’s thankful he doesn’t remember it. “Matters who is asking.”

  


“Allen FRANCIS Doyle?” Crowley asks, and Doyle gets the impression that behind those dark lenses of his, he is looking mighty intense. Enough that it almost physically hurts and, no, wait, that is just Doyle’s head.

  


“Look, whatever I did, I’ll pay you back,” Doyle mutters, trying to stand up again. He’s a bit more successful this time, though he still needs the wall to lean on. “But I don’t have the money right now, okay? Nothing I can give you.”

  


“Are we sure this is him?” The man in the white suit looks pretty intense himself, although mostly in worry. “I thought that a heavenly messenger might be…”

  


“Sober?”

  


“Well, yes. And taller.”

  


“Hey now.” Doyle holds up his hands. “I know I ain’t much to look at but there’s no need to go getting nasty.”

  


“Look, Angel, not everything has to be all lights and blasting trumpets,” Crowley is saying, all but ignoring Doyle now while he talks with the other man. “You wanted me help finding him and, well, here he is. It‘s your guys who picked him out, not me.”

  


Again with the confusing talk that Doyle is pretty sure relates to him, although apparently he must still be at least halfway drunk, and maybe this is all some sort of big mistake. “Look, could you have your lover’s tiff somewhere else? I feel like shit and I just wanna get some rest, if you understand.”

  


“We’re not-”

  


Crowley cuts the other one off, pushing his face right up into Doyle’s. “Look, my friend just spent a lot of time trying to track you down. Could you sober up just enough to listen to him?”

  


And just like that the headache was gone. And the shaking. And the dizziness. And Doyle’s vision gets a damn sight clearer, too.

  


“Ah.” Crowley smiles a brilliant looking smile, straightening himself out. “That’s better. He’s all yours, Angel.”

  


Still frowning, the man in the white suit steps forward. “Allen Francis Doyle?”

  


“That’s me,” Doyle answers, because he’s still in shock and doesn’t feel up to lying just yet. Whatever these guys are, he’s suddenly thinking it isn’t human. And then he remembers his whole reason for drinking in the first place, and the sudden onslaught of soberness doesn’t seem like such a good thing. “What do ya need, exactly?”

  


“You’re being called,” the man answers, looking plenty nervous about this whole thing, like maybe he’s making a mistake. “By a higher powers.”

  


Maybe he is, because Doyle isn’t sure he quite understands all this, but it sounds important and, well, he’s a nobody, isn’t he? Just some poor little teacher that turned out to be half spiky demon thing. “Err… Listen, I’m not sure who you are but I think you have the wrong Allen Francis Doyle.”

  


The man looks back to his friend Crowley, who shrugs. “The books said there was only two half demon named Allen Francis Doyle, and unless you’re looking for a ten year dead mucus demon…”

  


“No…” The man sighs, shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid you’re it.”

  


“I’m what exactly?” Doyle scratches at his ear, trying to remember more of last night. He remembers the bar, yeah, but that could have been from any night. That’s all he’s been doing for a while now. Since he found out about his dad and since Harriet left him. He remembers this Crowley guy… Sorta. He remembers being asked by this one strange man for the time, and being told that he was late. He remembers singing Mandy at a karaoke bar.

  


Doyle groans, his eyes sliding closed. Shit, please tell him that didn’t happen. Hell, please tell him none of this has been happening. That everything since his twenty first birthday has been a great big nightmare. “Look.” Doyle opens his eyes again, straightening himself some now that he’s sober. “Look, I don’t care who or whatever you two are… I mean, I’m thankful you made the headache go away and all but -”

  


And then the headache comes back.

  


Only, you know, a million times worse.

  


Doyle is only half aware that he’s gripping his head, falling down to the floor as the pain hits. More like an uppercut, really, and what the hell is he seeing. It’s a school and a giant snake and an explosion and there is some tall, brooding looking guy with fangs and his heart is breaking, Doyle can feel his heart breaking and he doesn’t know why only that it hurts.

  


And it lasts forever before he can open his eyes again. “The hell was that?” He groans, trying to massage away the pain, but it doesn’t begin to help, and all the images and feelings are still right there at the front of his head.

  


“Visions,” the one man answers. “You’re bound o get a few of those now.”

  


“What do you mean visions?” Doyle grumbles, glaring up at this man. He doesn’t care how sorry he looks, that hurt like fuck and it has never happened before and since this guy happens to be standing around, Doyle is all to ready to blame him. “And what do you mean by “a few”? You mean that is going to happen again?”

  


“Well… It’ll be a different vision, but yes. They’re sending you visions,” the man explains. “So you can help people.”

  


“Screw people,” Doyle grumbles, pushing himself back to his feet. “I’m not even one of them anymore.”

  


“That isn’t… You’re only half demon,” the man explains, and he’s actually helping Doyle to his feet, brushing off his shirt like a good old friend. He really doesn’t get that Doyle hates him, does he? “You get a choice and we…. Well, not me exactly, I probably would have gone with someone a little more-”

  


“Get to it, Angel,” Crowley snaps, and the man blushes somewhat, nodding.

  


“Right, sorry. We decided to give you a chance. To redeem yourself.”

  


Doyle has spent his last few years getting himself drunk, doing anything and everything he could to turn himself into a demon. It just seemed easier than facing that part of him hidden right beneath the human surface. Seemed safer if he were as evil and wrong as he figured he must be. And he thought by now everything that Francis was Doyle was not, and never would be, and didn’t even want.

  


Still... Still, something about the way the man said ‘redeem’, it caught Doyle’s attention. “Alright,” he says slowly, not trusting the words to come out just right. “Alright, what do you want me to do for you, then, huh?”

  


“Somewhere,” the man says, smiling at Doyle for the first time. “Somewhere, an Angel needs your help.”


End file.
